


what if we were nothing

by birdsandivory



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Mid-Canon, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), also have a helping of miklan feels, and it's important to comfort those you care about, because they're deeply in love, just two boys having little talks, short and bittersweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: Standing beside Sylvain feels like wading in a downpour without cover. He sprinkles Dedue with his own personal shower every time he shakes his head in denial that he is his own dark spot in life. Though, if anyone told him so, he’d just grin from ear to ear—would say that the world is a party he’s the life of, actually.But he's not much of a party now. The rain water floods at their feet.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier & Dedue Molinaro, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	what if we were nothing

**Author's Note:**

> did a little syldue collab/trade with [hobo](https://twitter.com/hobovampire) and created this lovely little number! i've been having a lot of fun discovering dedue ships lately and i have to say, this one is really good. ;;;; it has a ton of potential, so i'm glad i had this chance to work on a piece with these two as my focus!! 
> 
> of course, i couldn't help but make it a little sylvain-centric. 
> 
> check out hobo's lovely piece [here](https://twitter.com/hobovampire/status/1311125991423701000)!!!
> 
> and thanks so much [maki](https://twitter.com/orgiastique) for reading all my words!

*******

Sylvain is standing before Jeralt’s grave. 

His usual grin is replaced by a pressed-thin line, and his brows come together to shade his downcast eyes. His mouth twists like he’s tasted something bitter—hard to swallow and stuck on his tongue.

 _It isn’t raining, but it feels like it is._ Sylvain’s drooping shoulders are like heavy clouds, full and gray, looming over the tombstone of their old professor’s father as if he’s trying to understand the very concept of death; as if by doing so, it will get easier to face with time. 

As if he’s trying to hide the fact that it won’t. 

He remains stiff as the bodies beneath him as time goes by. If not for the sunlight illuminating the rubble of Garreg Mach, one would think he was saying his last words before battle. His goodbyes and future hellos to ghosts on the other side. His last rites as a man before he walks away a soldier. 

Dedue wonders what Sylvain would say if he could see himself this way. He holds himself too tall, too straight; his hands aren’t quite fists, and his fingers twitch like he wishes to grasp something between them. Whether for anger or comfort, Dedue doesn’t know. He only knows that his own fingers would be a decent fit for their empty spaces, and he would comfort Sylvain, if that’s what he wanted.

Though, he wouldn’t mind if Sylvain were angry either.

Dedue’s rarely had the chance to experience the turbulent range of his emotions—so anything other than false happiness will do. 

To see his smile without its sparkle is troubling. 

To see him here of all places... is troubling.

If it were someone else in his place, Dedue would understand. Many soldiers would visit Jeralt’s grave on off days; would stare sadly into fond, old memories. Friends of his would stay for a while longer; would shed a tear, would leave a single flower, would place a hand upon the stone and pray if they had words to spare. 

But Sylvain—he looks at the carved stone as if it’s done him a great injustice.

Dedue can’t say he knows how long Sylvain’s been standing there, but for whatever the time he has—the hours, the minutes—he’s been fighting something. And though he’s not so sure he _should_ intervene, a part of Dedue knows he has to. If he’s learned anything about this secret bleeding heart, it’s that it doesn’t have the strength to stitch itself closed on its own.  
  
And he thinks, after all this time by Sylvain’s side, he doesn’t really mind doing it himself. 

Dedue’s footfalls are purposely heavy, echoing off the stone steps loud enough for Sylvain to hear. And it’s immediately obvious that he knows it’s Dedue who’s coming for him. If he didn’t, he’d have made an effort to leave before a solemn viewing became a conversation. To turn around with a grin and flirt his way out of questions. 

To let the sun shine through his rain clouds because he doesn’t want to let anyone know it pours. 

Standing beside Sylvain now feels like wading in that very downpour without cover. He sprinkles Dedue with his own personal shower every time he shakes his head in denial that he is his own dark spot in life. Though, if anyone told him so, he’d just grin from ear to ear—would say that the world is a party he’s the life of, actually. 

But he’s not much of a party now. The rain water floods at their feet.

Dedue doesn’t say a word; it doesn’t feel right to. Instead, he waits until Sylvain makes the first move, leaning in closer to Dedue until their arms are brushing together with every idle movement. It’s subtle, but warmth blooms along Dedue’s side at the very thought that Sylvain might seek his comforting touch.

That metaphorical rainstorm above them has subsided to a light sprinkle. 

_Speak when you are ready_ is all Dedue is able to offer in return; a moment, a chance for Sylvain to explain himself—if he wants to.

A gentle breeze sweeps through coppery strands of hair, and Dedue hears him sigh.

“I know Jeralt was a legend,” Sylvain begins. His tone is so casual, as if spending afternoons standing over a corpse is as normal as flirting with every woman he sees. But then, the atmosphere changes—an instantaneous drop into the nearest ravine as he says, “and Miklan was a criminal.” 

Sylvain’s head jerks suddenly, as though he were just about to look at Dedue, but decided not to at the last second. Somehow, he appears even more solemn despite the fact that his lips twitch upward into the smallest smile. Dedue thinks Sylvain’s mysteries will never cease, that the more transparent he becomes, the deeper he’ll dig into the darkness to escape the light. 

He sees why staring at a block of stone is just a little bit easier than this.  
  
“Miklan was a criminal”—he must be trying to convince himself of that fact—“but he was still a person. Shouldn’t he have a grave, too?”

Truthfully, Dedue is surprised to hear him say such a thing. He was so sure back then that Sylvain bore nothing but hatred toward Miklan and was hated just as much himself. That whatever their tragic past, there was no recovery; that the word ‘brother’ to Sylvain was no different from ‘stranger’, or perhaps even closer to ‘enemy’. Hearing him speak with sympathy like this makes Dedue think that maybe that was just another lie, another shield to protect his breaking heart.

“Even if Jeralt wasn’t some loved-by-all hero, even if he was a criminal, too—looking at his grave, I can’t come to hate him at all.” Sylvain laughs mirthlessly, and Dedue presses closer still—presses their shoulders together until the dig of their sharp, jutting armor hurts. Until he can practically hear Sylvain say: _“I wonder if anyone would feel that way if it was Miklan.”_

It is what goes unsaid that resonates with Dedue most.

What he knows of Miklan is little more than what transpired on that day in Conand Tower. Sylvain doesn’t speak of him, hasn’t since the day he died. And everything he’s ever heard about him has been gossip, not once spoken from Sylvain’s mouth: crestless heir turned bandit, one of the bad guys, enemy of the church— _a thief, a thief, a thief._ Dedue’s best guess is that, if someone were to ask Sylvain if any of these rumors were true, he’d be inclined to agree that _yes, he’s certainly no war hero._

Yet, here he is, wondering if Miklan deserves the same respect as one.

Dedue was there during that fateful battle, remembers that it wasn’t Sylvain who took his brother’s life; he’d stayed back, looked on with wide eyes as someone else did it for him. And Miklan, whether good or evil, wore that same horrified look as he transformed into a beast. In that moment, Dedue saw with startling clarity just why they were born brothers. The hate they harbored for their parents, for crests, for the world—was woven into the angry strands of their eyes from birth.

Even if they had wanted different things in the end, they are still the same in this way.

“I think about it sometimes—who the bad guys really are,” Sylvain admits, keeping his eyes on the stone. “Is it Edelgard?” And then, in a mirthful, breathy huff: “Is it us?”

And, _if that were true—if we fell—would that justify us not being buried?_

Dedue is not shaken by these thoughts. There were countless moments in his life when he nearly ended up a lifeless corpse in the dirt—forgotten until his bones were picked clean by beasts. He no longer asks himself if he deserves a proper burial, or one at all.  
  
The world has no room to be granting such favors.

But Sylvain—he _wonders;_ asks himself, if at the end of this he is not alive, will they toss him aside as if he were nothing?

Dedue knows he hasn’t an answer to that. None of them do.

“I think about that,” Sylvain says after a long moment. “I think about it—and if I told someone, they might not believe me.” This time, he really smiles, and it’s something truly pitiful to look at. Something sad. As if the Sylvain who doesn’t care if he snubs women—if he breaks hearts, if he allows the envy for a simple life to overcome him and make him bitter—hurts because, when he wants to be listened to, no one will take him seriously.

And was it not Dedue at his side, that much might be true. Even now, there are things about Sylvain that elude him despite his unwavering acceptance. Believing words with all of his heart is one thing, and having faith, but Sylvain’s soul is as deep as the ocean; there are some things that will always remain a secret. Like here, like now, and the way he speaks of men long since departed from this world.

Just when Dedue thinks he’s figured Sylvain out, he catches him standing in the middle of a cemetery—attempting to know the worth of his life.

Dedue stares down at the grave.

Would Sylvain have felt absolved if it were Miklan in Jeralt’s place?

“That is not true,” he says quietly, finally breaking his silence. “Now, you have told me.”

“Yeah, but, no one would believe you, either,” Sylvain retorts, and then, sarcastically: “Goddess knows you’re a bad guy.”

A poor choice of words, but Dedue forgives him.

The quiet returns, drags on again.

Dedue can feel Sylvain’s hand clenching and unclenching against the back of his own, and he takes it, though loosely, fingers barely pressing against another fleshy palm. Sylvain instantly relaxes, opens up when given these small offerings—this vulnerability Dedue’s earned the right to witness. As if Sylvain believes his unspoken promise that he will never be judged for revealing the true self inside that he wishes for no one to see. 

That rough, lance-wielding hand grasps his tight, and Dedue chances words.

“In Duscur, we would burn our dead and scatter the ashes,” he says, _like the way the gods in the sky scattered the stars._ His voice is light, full of sentiment despite the heaviness of the topic—Dedue finds it hard to feel anything but warmth when it comes to the customs of his homeland. “From them, countless flowers would bloom.”

Dedue thinks back to his first encounter with death. The way his father spoke of it was different from the way it felt to see someone there and gone, so mercilessly taken by the earth they worshiped—but it gave him new eyes. An understanding deep within him whenever his fingertips touched the world, turned the soil, plucked a blossom dancing toward the sun. 

An acceptance in the way things are. That life goes on even after death.

Perhaps he can give some of that understanding and acceptance to Sylvain; that they may see the world through the same eyes, even just this once.

“Pollen and ash are collected by the breeze, and in an endless cycle, our bodies travel with the wind.” He smiles then, remembers fondly the time he and his sister had watched the sky carry their grandparents away, how they found a pair of flowers later that week—side by side in two radiant, favorite colors. “They descend gently onto the dirt at the end of their journey, and then grow towards the sun as something new, bright and alive again.”

Dedue pauses for a short moment, eyes roaming the cemetery grounds before he says, “all return to the earth one day, no matter where they fall. That is how we are all the same.”

“No matter where they fall, huh?” Sylvain sounds skeptical, voice tight. But when Dedue turns his head to look at him, he sees that he’s touched Sylvain with his words just a little bit, those brows pulled together sadly, lips smiling pitifully. That’s when he finally understands that absolution for Sylvain is the comfort he feels when words become imagination instead of real life; the thought that, in another time—another place, far from here—things could be different.

Dedue doesn’t want to confirm a thought like that to be true. That’s why, when he sees a red dahlia rising from the corner of the grave site like a rebellious weed, he finds himself thinking of reasons why Sylvain should never have to go very far to discover what he’s looking for. Dedue gestures toward the flower—looks to Sylvain to make sure he’s watching.  
  
“This is Miklan,” he says quietly, though it’s almost like he’s speaking to every sleeping body in the cemetery, the only other people besides themselves willing to listen. “He was once a man, nothing more or less.”

Sylvain stares past him, stares right at the dahlia with a look Dedue can’t describe, as if he’s trying to pick it apart—to see it in that exact way. Miklan, growing into something bright and alive right in front of him. 

In that very same second, that look washes away, replaced with unexpected amusement.

“Of all the goddess-damned things in this world”—Sylvain shakes his head with a smile—“Miklan would hate being a fucking flower.”

Dedue smiles at that, knowing Sylvain’s seen through his hopes to comfort him by the way he bumps their arms together playfully. Fingers slipping from his own, Sylvain tosses an arm over his shoulder, closes his hand into a fist and taps it gently against Dedue’s jaw. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, finally sounding like himself. 

“There is no need.”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything to that, only pulls away from Dedue to shove his hands into his pockets, eyes roaming the tombstones with new purpose. His gaze falls to the grave beside Jeralt’s—Sitri, a perfect stranger to them both. And he reaches out to touch the top of the stone thoughtfully, sighing light-heartedly as he does.

“You once said Duscur was like a huge field of flowers, right?” Sylvain asks, hand smacking against his leg as he turns back to Dedue. “Must be nicer to look at than all these rocks.”

A short pause follows Sylvain’s unexpected question, the air of melancholy that surrounded them before carried off by the wind. “Would you like to see it one day?”

Sylvain shoots him a coy look. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“If that is what you wish to consider it.”

A warm hand finds its way around the back of Dedue’s neck, and Sylvain smiles, something soft and reflected in Dedue’s own expression, and tilts his head up for a kiss. It’s a gentle push and pull of their lips, rough fingertips scratching at his nape holding them together. He’s not sure how long it lasts, but for once, he is thoughtless. As though there is less worry in the world so long as their lips touch.  
  
The kiss ends, leaves Dedue desiring more of Sylvain’s warmth. He watches the woody depths of those eyes look toward Miklan’s flower, brief and full of what seems like fondness, before staring back up at him with a mischievous glint. 

“Who knew you were that kinda dude, Dedue? Making out with a guy’s brother right in front of him—”

“But it is perfectly fine in front of Jeralt?” 

Sylvain laughs—mouth opened so wide his eyes screw shut—and drops his arm to Dedue’s waist. He tries to tug Dedue over into his side like he isn’t pounds upon pounds of armor—doesn’t complain when it doesn’t work out quite like he’d hoped, slides himself closer instead—and smiles up at Dedue warmly. A secret-to-the-world smile. Something specially Sylvain, but only in moments like these when Dedue is sharing his rain cloud. 

“Would you like to accompany me to the dining hall?” Dedue asks softly.

“I think I’d accompany you just about anywhere,” Sylvain answers with a wink.

It looks especially clear overhead now, however.

And just as they ascend the steps, Sylvain points lazily at a small, ruffled, white begonia—his dark eyes flickering up at Dedue, glittering with laughter at his preemptive sigh.

“That one’s you.”

.

.

.

“I am not dead, Sylvain.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Love and death are the two great hinges on which all human sympathies turn." —B. R. Hayden
> 
> [twitter.](https://twitter.com/birdsandivory)


End file.
